Kryptonite
by vinnie2757
Summary: In which America contemplates his relationship with Britiain and contents himself with the way things are now. USUK


**Title: **Kryptonite

**Fandom: **_Hetalia: Axis Powers_

**Author: ** Me, Vinnie2757~!

**Genre: **romance, fluff, friendship

**Pairing: **US-UK

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** Fluff? Language: I use _fuck_ this time, I don't normally. But I'm not swearing as much this time in general.

**Summary: **In which America contemplates his relationship with Britiain and contents himself with the way things are now. USUK

**A/N: **I had an idea for this one, but then I lost track. It was meant to be about America's sole weakness being England, but it quickly became just a ramble about them in an asexual, easy romance without acknowledging it. Notes at the end, as ever. Enjoy my lovelies~!

**Kryptonite**

_If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I._  
><strong>Michel de Montaigne<strong>

There was something about him.

"_For Christ's sake, Alfred! It's three in the morning, what the hell do you want?"_

Not his attitude, certainly.

"I just wanted to hear you talk. I like the sound of your voice."

Maybe it's his smile. It's a soft little thing, and his eyes soften to match, and there's this _look_ on his face, like he's content. He's not _happy_, he's _content_. Britain – England – _Arthur_ – he's made of softness. All of his hard edges are rounded, all of his muscles are lax beneath Alfred's fingers, his skin soft and warm, and it's such perfection –

He's getting ahead of himself, lost in a vast emptiness with only the softest of silks and velvets and cottons and the gentlest touches, the darkness of a late night, the moon glinting off emeralds, absorbed and glowing from within.

A shake and he adds, "You're sounding like Michael Caine at the moment. It's so cool."

There's utter silence for a good ten seconds, and then he's told to _fuck off and die, Jones _andArthur hangs up.

There's something about him. Not his attitude, or his manners (of which, so Alfred has come to understand, there are few) or even his voice. It's more than that, it's less than that. It's not something that can be defined. It just… It _is_, and that's all that matters.

Of course, Britain doesn't have a clue – or if he does, he's not letting on that he knows and Alfred has to pause and think at that, because if he does know and he's not doing anything, does that mean he doesn't think of America in the same way? Doesn't dream and long and hope for a chance to stand up, palms slapping the table top and just shouting to the world that they were honest-to-God _together_ and that could you _kindly_ take your hands off him, he's spoken for?

He wishes, in a part of him that lurks like some kind of monster in his chest, trying to claw its way out from the depth of America's soil, that the announcement of the Special Relationship had been more than a lunch date, more than a request to _please_, _don't try to kill each other with cigarette butts or toast racks_ for one day, and Alfred had sat opposite Arthur at the wrought iron table on an old, comfortable chair, his legs too long to fit and his elbows aching to rest on the table, and he'd wanted to put his feet against Arthur's own, rather than rest them against the legs of Arthur's chair, longed to be somewhere else that he could toe his shoes off and curl his toes around Arthur's, snake one foot up the inside of the British nation's trouser leg and get a smack upside the head for public indecency and a blush and Arthur's foot up his own in reply. He longed to have been able to reach across the table and take Arthur's hands, touch his face and promise not to let him down.

But there was nothing he could do, except look, and try not to make a mess and keep his mouth shut whilst he chewed on his coffee-and-walnut cake.

Britain made good cakes; hell, if it weren't for pretences, Alfred would admit to actually liking Arthur's scones, because honestly? He'd only burnt them once, and that hadn't been his fault. They were actually alright, if you liked that sort of confectionary. Which Alfred sort of did. But he'd never admit it, ever. Because he liked cakes that were neon blue and other such things he wasn't allowed to eat too much of because of the sugar content and being a diabetic nation sucked ass, but there wasn't a lot he could about it really.

Whatever, the point was; no matter how much he might like Britain's cooking, he would never admit to it for what it represented. Or something. He didn't really know, not since the scarred, old island had taken up permanent residence in his head. He would have thought, what with Arthur's love of words, that Alfred's repertoire and vocabulary would have expanded to accommodate him, but no, it's done the opposite. Shrunk into nothingness and relegated to parts of his brain little used.

"Well, screw you then," he grumbles, and puts the phone down.

A few days later, Alfred is sat with his arms folded, glaring at an air bubble in the wallpaper whilst the meeting goes on behind him. Of course, just because _Russia_'s the more mentally unstable nation and is bigger than Alfred by, like, an inch, of _course_ he has to be the one allowed to remain at the table whilst America's put in the corner like a naughty child.

Arthur'd given him this look, like he was _disappointed_. And damn if America wasn't easily bent over backwards by that look. So he sat in the corner and he glared at the air bubble and moped like a good little colony, whilst Ivan's eyes bored into the back of his neck and a chill ran up his spine like there were teeth clamping on his spine in the shape of Ivan's Cheshire grin.

It's like Ivan _knows_ Alfred'll bend over backward and do a somersault off a freaking _dinosaur_ if Britain clicked his fingers. It's like he knows it, and exploits it. But Russia? The thing about him?

He's a prick.

Oh, _sure_, they're _best friends forever_ now, what with the nuclear crisis over and done with and everybody not tiptoeing around them now (and especially now that Arthur's slapped him silly over it all, once he was sure Alfred didn't have his hand on his gun at all times), and sure, Alfred likes Russia as a country.

Doesn't mean he has to like him as a man.

He gets so wrapped up in the thought of murdering the Commie bastard in his bed as he sleeps like a baby that the meeting just goes on behind him at the speed of sound. It's only when Arthur touches the back of his neck, his palm a cool weight that trickles down his spine and relaxes muscles he'd forgotten he'd tensed, that he realises it's over.

"Oh," he says helpfully. "Did anything get done?"

Arthur's got blood under his nose. "Of course not."

It's smeared across his lip, caught in the dip of the scar tissue at the corner of his mouth. Alfred, if he didn't value his dignity (and his balls), might spit on a handkerchief and wipe it off, because Arthur had obviously missed it in his half-arsed attempt to clean his face.

"You've got blood," Alfred tells him, and touches his own face. "Just there."

Arthur shrugs. "I know," and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. There's blood all over the table in front of the island nation's seat.

"Shit, what the hell happened?"

Arthur snorts unhandsomely as they begin to leave the room. It sounds a little wet, like his nose is still bleeding, but there's no fresh blood, Alfred checks. "Alfred, love. What the hell do you think happened? I was sat next to France. It was inevitable." He drops his voice a little, smiles, and Alfred laughs, slings an arm over his shoulders.

"Why, Agent, you forgot to overwrite the system file for this poor guy. Still looks like the nerdy little Brit that brought me up to be a total boss."

Arthur nudges him with an elbow. "Give over," he says. "You're more of a nerd than me. I can see the Superman logo on the T-shirt you're wearing under your shirt. And _don't_ think of tearing it like Clark Kent, please, dear God. I only have so many buttons."

They step out of the elevator and Alfred says, "Oh, hush your whining, dad. You love fixing my shirts, it satisfies all your girly urges."

"Don't call me that."

When he can't see Arthur's eyes like that, it's hard to tell whether he's genuinely offended, or just pretending.

There's something about him.

It's like there's this magnetic tug forming in the very depths of his chest, pulling him so close to Arthur he can't breathe for it. He coughs.

"Dude, what the hell are you wearing?"

"I'm wearing Hugo Boss," Arthur replies. "It's some shit my boss got me. I don't even know why, so don't go there. I think he's started to notice that I don't wear it – I mean, fuck, I hate wearing whatever the hell this shit's called – cologne? Whatever the hell it is, it's the sort of thing Francis would wear, so I thought I'd overpower him. Besides which, you don't smell much better."

"Hey, hey, hey, this stuff's awesome. Comes with guarantees and everything."

They're in the foyer of their hotel now, and Arthur turns left to start up the stairs to return to his room, but he pauses and turns back. He smiles a little and says, "Well then, it's a good job I fell from Heaven a long time ago, isn't it? I might hurt my arse on the way down, and that wouldn't be good for anyone."

Alfred kind of wants to kiss him.

Who's he kidding?

He's never wanted to kiss him more in his life.

Britain's smile is cast into an ugly light by the shadows on his face, but it's a beautiful smile nonetheless, and America wants to see it more – wants it to be Arthur's default expression. The green sparks with fire, and then he turns and climbs the stairs.

Alfred doesn't quite laugh, but he does give a little chuckle when Arthur stubs his toe on the lip of one of the treads and staggers up the next two steps.

Later, much later, as Alfred sprawls in his hotel bed, feet hanging over the edge and hands tracing idle patterns in the patterns of light on the ceiling fed through the gaps in the blinds, thinks that he's practically married to Arthur, in a lot of ways.

They're fraternal and paternal both equally, as familial as they are just friends, and it's the only relationship Alfred's ever had that hasn't been dictated by politics alone. Of course politics are involved, they _are_ politics, but even when they hated each other, even when they disagreed and fought and back-stabbed each other, they were _always_ bound together by something closer than mere human ties. They are above humanity and they are above anthropomorphism, and that, he supposes, is all that matters, in the end.

But then, it's not like there is a sexual aspect to their relationship – there never has been. Sure, Alfred occasionally gets caught in a loop, wonders what it would be like to sleep with the Englishman, wonders at what the calluses on his fingertips and palms would feel like on a space not the back of his neck, or his elbow, what scars had been accumulated elsewhere on his body over the years since he'd last seen it (1763, shortly after Matthew came to rest under Arthur's wing, kicking up a fuss and ruining Arthur's favourite shirt. Alfred didn't mind, really, it was a hideous shirt. He looked better without it) but never had he genuinely thought about sleeping with him.

He'd never seriously considered sleeping with anyone. He thought about it, sure, because his people thought about it, and he was as much a product of the system as he was a product of his people, but very rarely did he apply the concept of sex to someone he knew.

Arthur, sure, he was a sexual bloke, of course he was, he was England and England was nothing if not sexual – one of the most sexual nations in the world in fact. But he never, not once, even when he was at his worst, tanked on drugs and alcohol and god-knows-what, not once has he ever made a pass at Alfred, never tried to get in his pants.

That, Alfred thinks, might be part of the reason he loves Arthur so much. He knows – he has to know – that Alfred, for lack of a better word, is asexual. Arthur might love sex as much as Francis (and Alfred knows he does, Britain has stopped vehemently denying it, and just shrugs dismissively when its raised now) but he respects Alfred's feelings, keeps tales of his exploits and conquests to a historical 'I sank Spain's battleship' where it's appropriate, and leaves it out completely where it isn't.

But of course they're married, they bicker like an old married couple, and they fight about Alfred's eating habits and about Arthur's drinking problem (later, Alfred will also rail against his use of drugs and doesn't he _know that speedballing's dangerous really, Artie, you know better than that by now!_) and they argue about politics and who gets to do the crossword in the paper. They go for a coffee-afternoon-tea in the park when the weather's good, they sleep in the same bed when at each other's houses, they fight over whether Arthur _really_ gave that waistcoat to Alfred when quite clearly it didn't fit, as if Alfred would have worn it anyway.

It was a purely sentimental acquisition for one thing, and for another, it smelt of earth and rain and was stained with British blood, around the collar, from a bar-room brawl a hundred years ago.

(Besides which, Arthur deliberately orders tailored suits for Alfred in classical styles, knowing they'll hang in Alfred's closet for eternity, for the sole purpose of stealing them back after Alfred's smell is ingrained in them just in time for a World Meeting because then he'd smell of America and that was kind of hot, and didn't that mean England wanted to be known as America's? Was there politics in that? Or was Britain just playing games like always?)

Alfred does pay attention, when the mood strikes, not that Arthur notices. If he does, he should stop keeping quiet and making Alfred second-guess himself about everything, it's getting rather annoying of late.

There's something about him. He's not sure what it is, but it's something buried deep under layers of British stuffiness and pages of history. Something in there drove Alfred to choose him over Francis, and whatever it was has kept Alfred going back time and again, as though he were addicted.

He might be, for all the insanity Arthur's put him through these last four hundred years.

Not that he would mind, all that much. Britain was a very pleasant drug, now it had stopped being a prescription. He'd crept back into America's system, slow and silken, a sound and a taste, and that was it all it took. A single song, a crooked grin, and America was lost to the Invasion, a prisoner of war to his own country, obsessed with Abbey Road and denim studs, with Cockney and Geordie and the Yorkshire Dales. There was a thrill, low in his spine, deep in his gut, hearing the broad lilt of Arthur's words curl across his tongue as he spoke calm and low about whatever it was that had crossed his mind.

(He was pretty mellow, really, when you weren't actively riling him up. Of course, Alfred realised what caused that slow, easy anger, and stamped down on it as best he could.)

There was something about him. He was all wire mesh and porcelain, and his hard edges were softened with something immovable and cold, and yet for all his imperfections, for all the wrongs he'd done unto Alfred and unto the world, unto _himself_, America couldn't keep away.

His eyes were green and his hair so blond as to verge on brown because blond was a dying gene and he didn't have the red his siblings had by virtue of stubborn refusal to change themselves as anthropomorphics – because they could, in their own subtle ways. Technically androgynous, they could change little things; hair colour, eye colour, build, accents and pitches and tones, just enough to blend with their people as they needed to, should they choose to, and it was the only thing that had stopped Alfred from being burnt in 1692 – and there was nothing particularly _special_ about that, but it _was_. It was enough for Alfred that he kept going back for a fix.

He thinks Arthur knows that. Fuck, the _world_ has to know that.

Matthew said, once, that he'd known how Alfred felt from the moment he walked through the door in 1763, and he said that Alfred's expression had never once changed, not really. Oh, he said, there was hate and rage in there, and there was betrayal and sadness, but not once did it lose that expression of love. Matthew said that he knew that that was what Alfred felt because he had seen it a thousand times over in his people, had seen it a thousand times over in Arthur's eyes when he allowed himself a moment to watch Alfred do whatever it was he was doing.

He also said that the strangest thing about it was that though it was clearly a romantic love in his brother's eyes, not once in his three hundred years of watching did Matthew see lust in there. It was completely asexual.

(Alfred, caught in the sixties and seventies and they'd blurred into one indistinct mess, had been fretting over being caught out, and had dealt with it in the most mature manner he found himself capable of; he punched Matthew hard enough in the face to break his nose and make him spit out three teeth. He had spent the next three months too scared to leave his house in fear of running into somebody waiting to do the same to him.)

He doesn't really know why he's so bothered about it, in all honesty.

In the morning, Alfred wakes to find Arthur sat in the chair at his desk, back to him, tea in his right hand, pen in his left, doing the crossword in the paper. Without looking, he sets the tea down on the desk, picks up an apple and tosses it over.

It's bitter and dark red and absolutely gorgeous. But of course Arthur would make sure to get him the most bitter red apple he could find, he knows Alfred too well, and Matthew had to get his passive-aggressive one-upmanship from somewhere, even if Alfred has no idea what kind of comment Arthur's making with the fruit.

Something about knowledge and cynicism, probably, that was his style.

When Alfred's eaten and slam-dunked the core into the bin, Arthur toes off his boots – military, he's been with his boys in the SAS again, Alfred thinks idly – and climbs into bed next to him. Alfred knows he can't smell all that great, but Arthur doesn't bat an eyelid, just throws a leg and an arm over Alfred's body, presses the cradle of his hips into the jut of Alfred's own, and sighs contentedly against his neck.

If Alfred didn't know better, wriggling his arm up under Arthur's ribs to curl around his back and rest his hand in the not-really-there dip of his waist, he'd say Arthur was falling asleep.

"Not asleep," he grumbles right on cue, and cracks his neck, settling a little more arched, hips still close, shoulders away. "Just resting. Francis is noisy as fuck."

"Why do you keep getting rooms next to his?"

"Because I like hitting the wall and making him think I'm getting laid," Arthur replies as though it's obvious. Alfred supposes it is.

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Because you're a hero."

"Damn straight."

They settle into an easy silence then, life outside going on without them, tugging at their veins, itching at the creases of their skin. Britain's skirt will be creased when he gets up, and he'll look mussed, but he doesn't seem to care. His waistcoat and jacket are slung over the desk chair, and he'd hung Alfred's two-piece navy suit up ready-and-waiting for when he finally got up. It was one of three suits Alfred willingly wore, the other two being a black and a grey one. All three had, of course, been bought for him by Arthur (he'd been dragged to the tailor's by his ear, literally, too, and forced to stand there until the suit was fitted and paid for. He doesn't know what to say when he sees the four-hundred-and-fifty price tag on the navy one, because Arthur owned suits that cost upwards of a grand, and didn't bat an eyelid when he tore them doing whatever-it-was that he did in his free time that involved getting covered in blood and dirt.) because Arthur couldn't – and wouldn't – abide ill-fitting tailoring, and even less a badly-made suit. God forbid he ever buy a suit from a department store and wear it in front of him, he'd get hung-drawn-and-quartered for his troubles.

It was kind of sweet, in a _you're destroying the economy with your obsession for looking good this is the government's money you're spending you're so fucking hot_ kind of way.

"What's the meeting about today?"

"The usual bollocks, I expect," Arthur replies, breath warm and fingers cold against Alfred's arm. "I'll be a slap on the wrist for getting blood on the table, you'll get a slap on the wrist for picking a fight with Russia, and Francis won't be allowed in. It took me half an hour to get the bloodstains out of my jacket last night."

"Stop wearing expensive suits then."

"God forbid I have to look like I rolled out of bed and threw on the first thing I found."

Alfred's hand finds its way to Arthur's hair, brushes the mess forwards, the gel catching and sticking. It's obvious, when he pulls it away, that someone's just messed up what was once a sensible side parting.

"With this hair? You look like a punk." He's silent for a second, hand on his neck, thumb curled under the collar. "You've got curls growing back," he says, because it needs to be said.

Arthur groans, and shoves himself to his feet. "Don't remind me. Come on, up you get, love, we've lounged around quite enough." He pauses, and then adds, "If you've got gel on my shirt, I _will_ kill you."

Alfred laughs, ducks around him, and flees into the bathroom to get ready.

Arthur, of course, has to tug his suit straight before they leave, because Alfred doesn't take the time out to put it on straight. He doesn't miss the way the Brit lingers, hands curled lightly around the bones of his hips, body close and personal, but before he can find the words to say that he doesn't mind, Arthur's gone, halfway down the corridor before Alfred's even shut the door.

There's something about him.

If pressed for an answer, Alfred wouldn't be able to tell you what that something was, but it didn't really matter. All that mattered was that Arthur was there, close and warm and always, always his.

**++End++**

**NOTES::**

Following the trend, Alfred is, of course, wearing **Lynx Excite**. And of course Arthur knows, he's a genius.

I am a **Holmesian**, leave me alone. Most of Alfred's pondering about marriage contains a Holmes reference in one form or another. **Asexuality** is a long-standing debate. **Arthur's drug use** is historically accurate to Britain being the worst drug offender in Europe as well as the Opium Wars, but Holmes was also a habitual cocaine and morphine user. The **argument about the waistcoat** is from the Guy Ritchie 2009 film, and the whole idea of them **being married** is one of the more popular fandom creations for the BBC series, _Sherlock_. So there you have it.

**Abbey Road** is of course, the site of the famous _Beatles_ photo. I am not a _Beatles _fan.

In **1692**, this place in America held a series of witch trials. It was called Salem.

Vince, your sexuality's showing, stop it.

**Alfred's £450 suit** is something I learnt about from Benedict Cumberbatch bitching on the _Sherlock _commentary for episode 3; Spencer Hart, that's all I'm saying. **Arthur's three-piece suit**, by the way, is bespoke and from Anderson & Sheppard, or maybe H. Huntsmen, depends on what mood he's in. Just so you know. Because of course he'll wear an English designer, and of course he'll put Alfred in Spencer Hart because you know, he's Arthur.

Also, a little ways back for RI4,** Silence** asked if I'd read YadaYada, and I hadn't, but I found the review again this morning whilst trawling through my emails, and I thought, oh sod it, and decided to look for it. So I found it. And I read it. And it's the cutest thing ever. Go read it.

**So, long time no see Hetalia fandom. I love you really. ++Vince++**


End file.
